4.
She enters into the apartment, her shoulder brushing against
mine as she walks past. Setting her bag on the couch, she gives the place the
once over.
“Looks like a museum,” she laughs.
Then, turning to me, “If you’re making coffee, I’d love some.”
“Is that an order?” I say, playing
hard to get. “Because if it is, I haven’t agreed to taking on this job. Looks
dangerous enough for me to lose my skin. And I like my skin. It fits nice.”
By all appearances she has no idea
about my history with her husband, and that’s the way I want to keep it, at
least for the moment. If she knows I went after the Jesus bones with him once
before and he had cause to run out on me, no way in hell will she tolerate me
getting a second chance to make a grab for them. She’ll just assume I’m some
so
